Been reading John Grogan's Marley and Me (he's a reporter for the Philadelphia Inquirer) while on the elliptical at the gym. It's about he and his family's life with their labrador and it's a very interesting and entertaining read because their dog was large for his size and a bit mental. I'm coming now toward the end and Marley is old, arthritic and coming to the end of his life.
Already, I've begun sniffing with occasional hot leakage from the corners of my eyes while on the machine and doing my best to conceal it all so that people--especially Hornet who may see it as weakness and move in to gloat!!!--on the adjacent machines don't think I'm mental. It's hard to maintain a stiff upper lip because his descriptions--the prose is spare and pointed--and the dog's condition are bringing back stinging memories of what we went through during Spice's final days almost a year ago.
Worse, I'm finding it increasingly hard to open the book because I know what's coming and dreading the moment I turn the page where it's described. But so is life, I suppose.